


The Tinkerer

by faderifter



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Developing Friendships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, bad fanfiction, not zombies, shitty fanon stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faderifter/pseuds/faderifter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which you are a survivor turned shadow or starlight, blackhole, spacetime tragedy<br/>_____<br/>The end of society has come and passed and Dirk lives in its remains. Security is a forgotten concept and human contact is even more foreign. These things, these relics, conflict when he meets another boy out in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tinkerer

Below him there was concrete – layers and layers of concrete – and him above was the sky, murky and familiar. He stared up at it through his shades; it was about all that was left in terms of “familiar”. That and the ocean which had long ago grown hungry and swallowed buildings whole. The streets that hadn’t fed salt waters saw next to no activity anymore beyond the rodents that ran about. Their days of being game were scarcely even memories now; the role of prey had shifted to another group, and hunted to extinction. Or nearly. He figured if only one of twelve billion remained, a species could be considered wiped out. Dirk hadn’t seen another human being in two years – not one that hadn’t tried to kill him at least. Not even his brother, the one who brought him up, the one after whom he was sculpted. Maybe he was a hunter, maybe he was dead. He prayed to gods he didn’t believe in that it was the latter. The roof on which he stood held every memory of the two of them – of sparring and watching the sea.

The rooftop was his safest sanctuary, but before long he had looked enough, reminisced enough. He swept his hair back with one hand, katana in the other. The wind whispered sweet nothings in his ear through splintered window panes as he made his way down the stairwell, his steps echoing back at him. They were lighter than they used to be. His own apartment beckoned, but he knew the cupboards within were empty and his stomach was no different. It twisted and clenched as though held in a fist, angry at his inability to care for his own body. Supply runs meant facing the urban void and its hollow boulevards - desolate, deserted, barren, vacant, rotting. He wanted to hear a cacophony of car horns, the rumble of a thousand voices speaking at once. Anything but the sound of his own heart that defiantly beat though he willed it to stop. And yet he continued down those stairs, crumbling in time to his feet as if partners in a dance of decay. 

Survival hadn’t seemed very likely initially. At some point before it fell completely the American government had attempted to bomb the threat away. Dropped one right nearby. Even from underground that sound hit him like a mallet to a gong, reverberating in his head. What a surprise, that idea didn’t help anything; all it did was reduce buildings to dust and kill more of the sane. The infected -the hunters- they hid, like they do. He didn’t know where they went during the day – they could flip in and out of existence with the setting of the sun for all he knew. But then it got quiet. They played the same tricks over and over again. Made you trust them, made you think they were another survivor, finally another survivor. But no, life had no sympathy, at least not for him. Every human being he came across had long since been reduced to raging bloodlust and rifle scope eyes. He wasn’t even comfortable calling them human, actually – it felt like an insult to the memory of mankind, shitty as it may be. They looked like people and some even managed to act like people, but for the most part they were nothing more than rabid dogs. At their best they were savage and mindless - but then there were the others, the cunning ones. They had gotten in close, gained trust, then separated the uninfected and attacked in order to spread their disease. Sometimes they went too far, got carried away – killed their victims before making blood contact. Most of the time really. And so the population dwindled, leading to the current situation. 

On the ground, away from his rooftop perch, he didn’t feel as safe. All of his senses were heightened, reacting like francium to every rustle and movement in the fringes of his vision. A hand rested loosely on the hilt of his katana in anticipation as he walked. The smell of blood hung in the air - coppery, like old pennies. His stomach turned. Blood meant a kill, and a kill meant there was another survivor – or there had been until now. He wasn’t sure which he would rather. You had to be ruthless to make it out here, willing to do anything. On top of that, a partner -emotions- dragged you down, a full 6 feet under. He knew that better than anyone, but solitude rotted you from the inside out, and his core was ready to collapse. The question was of whether his hope or cynicism was stronger. The maddening isolation or the inherent will to survive even after burning through all the adrenaline he might have felt once. Deep down he knew full well blood meant nothing at all, but his feelings had been getting ahead of his brain again, something that never would have happened before the “apocalypse”. Genius Dirk, the brilliant loner and science mastermind getting carried away with emotions? No, never. He had a hydraulic heart with iron chambers and cable veins. Genius Dirk would never imagine strangers smiling at him or calling out hellos. He wouldn’t pretend his brother lay a room away at night, or that he was there to praise him when he did something right. He would never pretend not to be alone when he was. His footsteps echoed with no partner.

Soon he could see the supermarket ahead. A vine covered smiley face dotted the “i” in “groceries”. Cars sat in the parking lot, doors open, flipped over – but the most unsettling to him were the ones that looked as if their owners could come back and drive them off any minute. Hint: they weren’t. His eyes scanned the ground for something heavy to break the shops glass doors as he made his way to them. He picked up a jagged rock and drew his arm back to throw it through, but something stopped him, hand above shoulder. The door was ajar, just slightly. With narrowed eyes he made his way forward, rock and sword, now drawn, clenched tightly in opposing palms. Up against the wall he listened for the slightest sound – a rustle, a clink. Nothing. And so he pressed on, as he always did. 

The shop was dull and grey with dust, though a few particles swam in the sunlight before him. He crept along and peeked over displays, reluctant to let his guard down, hyperaware of the hints he may have been giving to his own presence. As he turned into the next aisle he swore he saw movement at eye level. He pursued it with creeping steps, one foot in front of the other, back to the wall. Now he heard, he heard movement. He turned his head to follow the sound around the corner but his body stayed behind. A boy in glasses and green sat slumped against the shelves, fingers rubbing tired circles on his eyes under the frames. He looked to be the same age, and maybe a few inches taller, but with narrower shoulders, a thinner waist. Mismatched guns were strapped tightly to his thighs, barrel down. In apparent frustration he kicked away a can with a groan, or maybe a shout. Dirk cocked his head but raised his blade, waiting for a chance to strike while the stranger remained unaware of his presence. He was relatively sure of his humanity from the emotion he showed, but who was to say he wouldn’t blow a hole in his heart anyway. They sat and stood in silence for minutes before the other boy finally brought himself to his feet and turned his back. Within the second Dirk was upon him, sword edge pressed against the back of his neck. The boy tensed. 

“Give me your guns.” 

Shaky breaths met his ears. 

“No.” he said with surprising stability. Dirk could hear the curl of the other’s lips around the “o” – he had an accent. Oh, he never should have left home. 

“I’m sorry?”

“I would simply rather not.” The boy’s right hand slid towards a gun, but he wasn’t sneaky and he didn’t exactly have the element of surprise over him. It left Dirk plenty of time to slip through his legs and pull his feet out from under him, bringing him ungracefully to the floor.

“You give me the guns or you lose more than just that.” He pressed the blade harder against his neck for emphasis. 

A breathy chuckle. 

“Name’s Jake.”

He paused. “…Why in the ever-loving fuck are you telling me?”

“What else is there to talk about? If you’re going to kill me we may as well get to know each other first– really though, you could have at least taken me to dinner.” Dirk hesitated, staccato vocal cords replacing the originals in his throat. “So old chap,” his voice sounded pained – probably from the knee pushed against his back. “you going to tell me yours?”

Dirk considered it, he really did. Considered giving a potential enemy his name. He almost wanted to hear him say it if he was being honest with himself. It was a sound that had passed through no one’s lips but his own in years, and he wasn’t even sure it would sound like a real word to him anymore if he were to hear it. And so he kept his mouth shut.

“Golly, you’re a quiet one aren’t you?”

The blond made a face. “Why do you talk like that?”

“What do you mean?”

Straightening his back, he cleared his throat, preparing his best (worst) English accent. “Pip pip my good fellow, my name is Jake and I have a death wish – good golly gosh, please kill me, Dirk!” 

Jake pushed forth a laugh from his condensed lungs, and Dirk found himself lifting some of his body weight off to allow him more air. “I must say, that was uncanny. So Dirk,” he shifted beneath him “what do you say you let me up and we talk this out like men?” 

With reluctance and a heavy dose of hesitation he began to pull away, roughly pushing the other’s head down with his katanas edge in a last display of dominance. On his knees he watched the dark haired boy sit up and rub his neck. He had expected a smile to be present, but he wasn’t sure he had ever seen such an expression of defeat before. 

“Much appreciated.” Now there was a smile. An incredibly forced, somewhat sad smile. Dirk kept his gaze hard, not that his eyes could be seen beneath his sunglasses. “Hows about we put our weapons on the ground between us and have a chat?”

He nodded curtly, shoving his sword back in its sheath and unclipping it from his belt. He tossed it to the ground unceremoniously, but continued to clutch the jagged rock he had picked up earlier in his hand, hoping it went unnoticed. His mouth remained shut as he watched Jake slip his guns from their holsters and place them delicately down, then put his hands up in contrast. 

“There we are.” he said, dragging out his words in an effort to sound soothing as he sat down. 

“Talk.” Dirk demanded, following him onto the floor.

“Well,” he smiled again, toothier “as I said, the name’s Jake. I’m 16, I’m from London, and my interests include movies, guns, and advent-“

“This isn’t some kind of fucked up first date – I meant tell me why I shouldn’t kill you, or rather, why I should believe you won’t kill me.” 

The Brit blinked back at him. “Isn’t that what I was doing? I can’t imagine you’ve seen many other people since they went feral. I should think you’d appreciate some company.” 

He was completely right. It was almost unreal seeing another human without their teeth bared or fists raised, but he couldn’t enjoy it fully through his distrust. If Jake had any brains at all, which he must to have survived this long, he had to be suspicious of Dirk’s intentions as well, no matter how clear he made them. Surely he too was used to being alone, but if they let each other leave the place alive, would they simply part ways? That seemed so incredibly illogical, but the alternative was teaming up, and as he said – they were used to being alone.

Jake just watched him with dark eyes, patiently awaiting a response. But he knew he wouldn’t be met with an objection. Soon enough he took the silence between them as confirmation anyway and spoke up yet again. “Now you. Tell me about yourself like this is some kind of fucked up date.”

“Yeah, alright.” He brought his knees up to his chest. “I’m Dirk Strider-“

“Strider? Like the-?“

“Like the director. He was my older brother.” Over the top of his glasses he could see Jake’s eyes, as well as his grin, widen. “I take it you’re a fan. Lucky for you we were practically the same guy – he did raise me- I just prefer robots over shitty movies.” He twirled his finger on the ground, collecting dust. “Here’s some insider information for you: he was a goddamn loser, and I miss him like hell.” Jake wasn’t smiling anymore, but Dirk was, if only a little bit. They returned to silence, and for a while. Enough to hear the steady second hand countdown on Jake’s watch.

“I was here for my grandmother’s funeral.” He looked up. “From England. She raised me, like your brother did. When the outbreak started they closed the airports, and just like that I was stuck here, with a sister to take care of back home. I was all she had, too. Funny how fast they quarantined us instead of saving us. And now it’s just me and you, isn’t it.” Before he would have mentioned how everyone had a sob story, but it was only theirs left – a tale of disease and mass metamorphosis. So now he nodded. The sun had begun to set, pushing past grimy glass to bathe the room in light the colour of sunshine through whiskey. 

Their voices drifted in the air to each other, soon carrying every sad thought and horrible thing they had done with them. Dirk found himself watching Jake more closely each minute with the growing fondness of a friend, and he feared if this feeling continued he would have to cauterize his heart back together before long. The further they fell towards night the more he came to accept this, knowing they would somehow be spending it with each other – night was the time the hunters came out – and they seemed to have come to an armistice. Or a white flag had been unknowingly waved.  
“What do you say we find somewhere comfortable to rest?”

With eyes focused past window panes Dirk spoke, and judging by the sound of his voice his mind had followed his gaze outside. “Do you trust me?”  
“I certainly do!” he replied with tragic surety, and turned his back.

Dirk clutched the rock so tightly it cut into his hand as it raised. Perhaps it too would have to be cauterized.

**Author's Note:**

> if you're confused, dirk killed him  
> i think he was afraid as much of jake being a good person as he was of jake killing him  
> he had no idea what to do or how to live with another human being again  
> those fears bled into one another and rather than take the risk he just decided he couldn't do it, he could only live (miserably) the way he had learned how  
> but that desperate want at the same time for human company was what led him to trust jake at least somewhat deep down
> 
> i might have written this for a writing class & i am ashamed it's so bad  
> i don't write stories, i do poetry


End file.
